The trees grow
And will keep
Growing old,
The minutes pass
Through them
Dying off at
61 seconds
Like a stem
Of bundled
Up geraniums
That waited
for the cold
To pass,
A corpse murdered,
Leaving only the
Skeleton of what
Was once loved,
Motionless with age,
And then comes the rain,
Washing away
Spilled blood,
Silence, rain,
Turning the ground
Into stone,
Where a river will
Run through,
Waving life
As butterflies emerge
From their cocoons,
Natural, a sign,
Like the light
That shines upon
The moon and
the moon shines
Upon us,
So much fog
Will dim it
So much
Like smoke
Breaking loose
From a fire,
In the woods
Nothing is certain
But the man living,
And eating,
And smiling,
Noticing that
The trees
Eat time.